A Single Girl’s Valentine

Posted in Uncategorized on February 14, 2012 by alisonadventures

So its approaching that time of year again…no matter what state or country you live in, weather its on snowy cobblestones or hot concrete pavement, all over the world couples are engaging in that wanton display of PDA known as Valentines day.
Chocolate, stuffed animals, and flora grace the office’s and university halls of besotted students and workers, hand holding and smooching in public triples, and wearing hot pink with scarlet red is suddenly exempt from being a fashion faux pas. And of course, every singleton wants nothing more than to hide under a duvet watching battle films with plenty of high tech artillery and explosives and wait for the day to just disappear.


For me, this valentines day marks the first one I will be spending not romantically involved (no, not even is a “seeing someone, playmate” way) since I first became legally allowed my first martini. I had always found the holiday quite an interesting experience, and the day seemed to run anywhere from being wined and dined and given beautiful hand-painted artwork, to taken to lush gardens and exploring nature, given gifts of jewellery, truffles, collars. And how can I ever forget that one year of being sick all over the Northern line, and being married before asked out properly at a notorious fetish club? (Don’t worry…turns out the ministers of Torture Gardens weren’t actually legally sanctioned. Shame.)
I am not against the holiday in any way, shape or form…I’m not one of those people who moan about it being “corporate, commercialized, a new way of milking the cash cow of consumerist society” or else saying “I refuse to celebrate a holiday that embraces love only one day a year…my partner should know I love them all the time, every day.” Bullshit. That’s a bit like saying “I refuse to celebrate my birthday   because I should be showered with gifts, adoration, and general ego-boosting all the time.” Hey, if it could be done, I’d be the first to sign up. But it just aint gonna happen.
Yes, of course your loved one should feel appreciated all of the time. But in a new information age filled with ever lengthening work hours, university coursework, and just a general lack of any personal, not to mention relationship, time for ourselves, what is so wrong about there being at least one day set aside solely for the purpose of romance? Treating one another to something truly spectacular that will create memories for years to come? The London eye with champagne at night, a stroll down the South bank after a concert or performance, titillation at a masked ball followed by utterly amazing sex? Even small presents or something hand written or crafted straight from the heart can often make the biggest impact.
As for the commercializing of it all, yes I completely agree that many big faceless operations will profit greatly from all those red roses and teddy bears. For gods sake look at all the deforestation contributing to mass global warming taking place every year as thousands of fir trees are chopped down for Christmas. Holidays are what you make of them…and what they mean to you. I personally celebrated xmas this year with my good friends over a nice big, fake tree. (In black, of course.) I myself would feel far more touched by a hand written sonnet, a song or handpicked wildflowers than anything that might be mass produced by Hallmark.
Saying that, those certain pair of stunning heels or gorgeous necklace or handbag would also be most welcomed…hey, just because Halloween leeches income off anyone with a fancy dress party to attend, doesn’t stop me from usually spending a small fortune on sultry Leg Avenue ensembles…that’s what my pay check is there for, after all. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with a little harmless consumerism, and any man who has disagreed usually thinks twice after seeing my special, limited-edition, valentines day super sheer/lacy/skimpy lingerie. Oh, the power of a heart shaped garter belt! How the morals melt.


No, I have nothing against the holiday as a whole. It’s the general attitude of either being miserable beyond belief, devouring Ben and Jerry’s to Bridget Jones and wondering if maybe your ex wasn’t that bad, ok he still lived at home and worked in the same dead-end job for five years, yeah he wanted to settle down and you wanted to travel around the world, and there was that tiny incident of him threatening to leave you if you wore body paint on New Years Eve and him always being the one to emotionally break down first and never talk things out after arguments. But he was someone to cuddle with, right? Someone to hold hands with and go to clubs with, someone to be there. Maybe he wasn’t so bad…maybe you shouldn’t have chucked him.
Or there’s the reverse…the getting massively pissed and pretending its just another Tuesday, just with the added addition of lots of extra alcohol. Why cant we as a society just accept it as simply another holiday we may or may not choose to partake in, and move on?
I think it has a lot to do with conditioning…as a high school student, our campus was flooded with hand delivered pink carnations, shiny red heart shaped balloons, oversized plush animals of every kind, enough candy to send you back into braces for another year. And I just remember thinking how utterly shite it felt to be the one person without the trinkets or arm candy, without someone to carry my books or hold my hand or kiss me in the corridors. It seems ironic saying this now, but the London glamour model of today used to be the quiet girl with frizzy hair in the back of the classroom absorbed in a book and dreaming of a better life.
Yet even when I changed continents and finally managed to leave my little slice of suburban hell as far away as humanly possible without having to make the full effort of learning a new language, that insecurity remained. No matter what crazy adventures I got up too, how well my course or job was progressing, or how many photo shoots I did, there still always had to be a guy in the picture. Now that the skin has cleared, the hair tamed and glasses swapped for contacts, all of a sudden I was getting all sorts of new and interesting attention (I think being American with a penchant for corsets probably also added to the intrigue.)
But was it the right kind of attention? I’m not quite sure how to answer that. There are some who might see the vintage lingerie, short skirts and stockings and heels sent off the wrong message, made me a slut or a sex object. But I’ve never felt that way…to me, the clothing I wear is much less revealing than the bikini tops and hot pants you see every day in Miami. After years of struggling with body issues and eating disorders, I have finally become comfortable in my own skin. I simply adore dressing up, and doing so in a seductive yet classy way. When I spend ages on my hair and make up, it is purely for the purpose of making ME feel beautiful, never for any man. Hearing about recent court cases of men saying women are “asking” to be raped for wearing miniskirts fills me with disgust. To me, the human body is a work of art, and we should be able to adorn it as we see fit. The fact that perverts and molesters see us as only victims to be taken advantage means that they are the criminals for such thoughts, not us for choosing to showcase our beauty.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet despite all of this, even while knowing I was at least reasonably attractive, educated and hopefully kind hearted, I still needed a man to make me feel complete. I don’t know if it was that old high school frustration of not having a prom date, or the intense pressure and drama of all those brief silly teenage romances, where your friends must know EVERYTHING about your new boyfriend, he must be hot/nice/funny/good body, and him not replying straight away to your texts signified the end of the “relationship”. Back when third base was still a big deal, before sex came into the picture and really screwed things up. When you were either with someone or else your friends were trying to set you up with any semi-attractive single guy in a 50 mile radius.
Oh, how things have changed! Since moving to London, I have gotten to experience city courtships in all of there varied and wonderous forms, some of them for the better, like discovering I was bisexual and at times, multi-orgasmic, or the worst, like sometimes the one person you don’t like at all as a person, somehow, your body responds to the best. Not to mention there is no such thing anymore as “dating”…in the city, you are “seeing someone” (usually more than one person at once), “friends with benefits/fuck buddies/playmates”, “in an open relationship”(more than you would think) and finally “in a relationship”.


 

 

 

 

It can get pretty complicated, to say the least. How do you know if the person you are seeing wants to see other people as well? How to bring this up without seeming like YOU want/don’t want to see other people? When is the right time? Do they even, actually like you, or is it just the scene/alcohol/substances taken?
Generally, the most common advise would be to just let things be and see what happens, although for an insomniac over-analyzer who is most likely at least borderline neurotic this can be rather difficult. Add the internet into it, and it’s a whole other ballgame (if the term “facebook official” isn’t in the new Miriam Webster, it bloody well should be for the sheer number of times I’ve heard it tossed around by friends in relation to a new partner.) Yet somehow, I have managed to sustain two long-term relationships, several couple-of-month flings, and yes, the obligatory one night stands to boot…although only a couple, and none were particularly memorable apart from a certain international ménage à trois.
I was even blessed with being able to remain friends with my two “proper” ex’s, the last one being oh so perfect in everyway but one. Of course that should have warned me…sometimes love can come at a bad time. When I’m truly with someone, I am with my whole heart. This is a kind of love that can only be gained through time, trust and deep mutual understanding. It’s not an overnight fling, a crazy moment, but something stronger. And I just wasn’t ready for that yet.
I believe everyone in a really committed relationship loses their independence, even just that little bit. The amount depends of course, as the couple as individuals, but generally couples tend to go out together. Sure, they might socialize, but generally not as much as a single person would, and they would likely leave together. This is not meant as a negative point at all, as relationships should  amount to equal give-and-take, its just a comment. But what if one of the partners doesn’t want to go out? What if they say they cant afford it, or are ill, but you should go out anyway? Then what? Do you pay for them the whole night but maybe secretly resent it? (Even if you don’t, there’s a pretty good chance they will feel guilty and do something daft like refuse to drink the whole night, so you feel awkward drinking, and then everyone is sober and miserable.) Or do you go out anyway, but feel really guilty in the knowledge that they are home and most likely waiting up for you? Either way, it puts a damper on the evening.
Another thing I don’t get about new relationships Is how they always expect to be put first…yes, if it is a long term relationship this goes without saying, but if I’ve only been seeing the person a couple of months and they get upset I’m spending Halloween with the girls who I’ve known for years and tickets had already been booked well in advance, its generally not a good sign of things to come. Or If the attractive, confident girl that they initially fell for suddenly becomes a threat to their share of the spotlight (a  definite warning.)
Something I hear quite a lot of is, “well maybe it’s the type of guys you go for”, and this is probably true. I personally like either pretty or masculine types with long hair, alternative interests or careers I actually find exciting (I’ve seen contortionists, fire dancers, angle grinders, musicians, alternative magicians, artists, although also an acupuncture student and a bartender). Call me shallow, but I’m also a sucker for blue eyes and toned arms…hey, you cant help who you fancy. Although of course I am sure there are guys who totally don’t match that description at all who could probably drive me wild…when it really comes down to it, personality and a sense of humour matters most.
And when it comes to girls…I don’t even think I have a particular type! There’s only been a couple I’ve ever really fancied, but it’s a side of me I’m really looking forward to exploring. I also have been looking into polyamory, which sounds like a beautiful path of forming connections with different people to satisfy your every need, in a totally open, loving way. Although I’m sure it has its problems and complications like every other form of relationship…I’m willing to give it a shot.


So after everything I just said, you would think I would embrace being single after my last relationship crashed and burned. But no…that old terror of being alone drove me into not one but two very short lived flings, both with people I had plenty of chemistry with but we just weren’t right for either other. And yet still, it hurt me. There’s a reason girls play hard to get and your always pursued by that one suitor you don’t fancy. Most men like a challenge, and you can never let on that you actually like them. Sounds easy enough, but I never was the sort to play mind games…I find the truth always comes out anyway and I’m rather like a bloke in that I tend to quite enjoy flirting and am very naturally sensual as well. But I’ve come to realize that the men who are only in it for the chase and cant be honest about their emotions really aren’t the ones I want in my life anyway.
So, a couple of months ago, I stopped trying. With my coursework piling up, paid work coming in to boot, and social events rapidly filling up every blank planner page, it dawned on me: even if I wanted one, I simply would have no time for a relationship! Being a naturally social creature by nature, I like being with people. And in the last few weeks of being single and free to go to any of the gigs, clubs and afterparties I wanted to, I’ve become so much closer to my friends and made many new friends in the process. Besides that, I’ve had so many more fun, crazy and interesting experiences than I did when I was with someone. Goodbye tests, manipulation, emotional blackmail, jealousy and insecurity. As long as you have awesome friends to crazy party and cuddle with and can come home whenever you like to a nice drink and some private time to recuperate, I’d take that over another drama-fest any day. And of course, as soon as I stopped thinking about it, I instantly had two people asking me out! Too late.
I’d rather hold out for someone I fancy like mad, is a man not a boy, fun but not completely insane, and isn’t afraid to show his (or her!) feelings. And I’d rather wait for that then settle for someone I’m not truly happy with. I think society tries to make us seem like lesser people for not being with someone…but in reality you are so much more. You have your full independence, your freedom and your choices are your own, without the guilt trips or any outside influence. So this valentines day I am proud to say…I am not single, I am COMPLETE. And damn right I’ll be spending this V Day frosting “love sucks” cupcakes and watching Tank Girl and Bitchslap! With my friends…but only for that lesbian wet tee shirt scene. 😉

 

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The Tiger and the Lighthouse

Posted in Uncategorized on July 25, 2011 by alisonadventures

Why must I be drawn to you,

like a fly to a lantern?

 

Spreading its wings to face the sun

Being burned by the hot hard glass,

Wings disintegrating into dust.

 

You are my false promise , my shining beacon.

Gazing for weeks at the Lighthouses beam,

Journeying past the roads un travelled.

 

Using my ax, I slice through the bushes

Chop down the fir tress

 

Slay the lions and free the tigress

Who always lurks, ever waiting, in the shadows of my subconscious.

With my body, I free her, releasing the silver bands, the prison bars.

The beastess in me.

 

Wild, raring, I race down the stony path.

I ignore the bristly chimps

Baring their blood-stained teeth in a menacing grin.

They cant wait to receive me

In their mouths.

 

Past the lone gray wolf

Emaciated, matted silver fur.

Look of death in his eyes.

 

The canary shrieks a song of destruction.

Out of apocalypse comes rebirth, join the fire and spark blaze burn!

 

Still, I run faster.

 

Widow Spider needs a home.

She needs a victim to trap

Into her web.

 

Only once her intended has been seduced

By the swirling threads of  deception and lust

Can she complete her beautiful prison.

 

She looks at me, eight feet clicking as her red eyes glow

She craves the norishment in my bones

Can feel it absorbing into her shell.

She wants me.

 

But on and on I run.

 

Until the lighthouses beam receives me.

 

Ah the light!

The serene fortress of that gleaming, much sought tower

pales in comparison to that brilliant, blinding golden light.

 

Panting, I race on all fours into the polished wooden doorway.

 

Only to find the inside deserted.

 

As light fills the windows surrounding the tower,

your essence has evaporated with the morning dew.

floating like particles of sunlight, just out of my grasp.

 

Outside I walk

 

Dejected. Abandoned.

 

 

Tail slung low between my legs.

 

Alone 

 

  Alone

 

    Alone.

 

 

The silver bars of my cell  have been traded for a new, metallic iron cage in my mind.

Confronted by this new mental jail, I once again begin to pace.

 

But there is no lighthouse, no sun on the horizon, no moon to light my way back into the forest.

 

All is as black as the empty lighthouse.

 

I am caught in the thick brambled bushes

Blood leaking out of my sides.

Why bother fighting any more?

You have left me.

 

The canary wails a new ballad

Vanity. Greed. Selfishness. Isolation. 

 

What a fool you have been!

 

The chimps run away with my ax

Laughing as they tear off strips of striped flesh greedily

Feeding off of my agony.

 

And Widow Spider begins to weave.


Posted in Uncategorized on June 30, 2011 by alisonadventures

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How to fund a week in Paris

Posted in Events, Vampire Ball de Paris with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2011 by alisonadventures

(If your ME, that is…)

Ever since last year, I’ve been eagerly awaiting Endless Night Vampire Ball De Paris.
Run by Father Sebastiaan, author of Vampyre Sanguinomicon: The Lexicon of the Living Vampire, as well as maker of Saabertooth fangs and launcher of the new alternative glamour-girl website (www.vampire-girls.com, which I am soon to be a part of as soon as I can manage to replace the fangs that were stolen whilst filming for ITV), the ball is famous for its fabulous parties across the globe.

An Endless Night event is like a cross between a sophisticated Venetian Masque Ball meets decadent Vampire Court, with the outlandishness of a rock n roll gig at a burlesque cabaret. With parties held annually in New York and New Orleans, this Saturday marks the very first Paris soiree, held at none other then the famous Moulin Rouge. Of course I had to be there.

The Ball

So did I save up months in advance, pre-booking a eurostar and hotel ever since learning about the event in December? Me? You have got to be kidding. I could say that I was waiting on my friend and her half-french boyfriend to decide, waiting to see if my partner had the funds, waiting for the weeks to pass as it was AGES away, waiting for Godot…you get the picture.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t trying to work or earn money, but the problem with events that are months away is that anything you earn can be spent now, on a night out in London, afternoon tea at Momos, shisha and drinks in Westfields, new hair extensions, nail refills (although as a model, the last two are pretty much mandatory). And as for that amazing vampire ball? Well, its in April. Plenty of time.

Until the week or so before the event when you realize that despite the fighting, the bitching and the tears your partner has no money and cannot, no matter what you might say,  borrow/steal/cajole from family/take out an unsecured loan/rob a bank/sell his sperm to aquire any. And yes, we did go over all of those options, pretty much in that order.

Faced with visiting the most romantic city in the world solo, with a newly loved-up couple, on an 8 hour Eurorail as affording the £300 Eurostar is just not happening, most girls would crack, change plans, cry in a corner. But I was determined. I wanted to go to the Ball, and I wanted it bad. But this Cinderella had to work for her glass slippers.

First, the money. £65 Eurorail was cheap enough, but there was the tiny problem of trying to book a 4 night stay in the most popular tourist destination in the world, over both Easter and the Royal Wedding weekend, no less. Youth Hostels? Booked, weeks in advance. Although still irritatingly popping up on hostel search, with one or two days selectively crossed out. What was I supposed to do? Hostel hop from one night to the next? In Paris? I don’t think so! The few hotels listed were either heart-stompingly expensive or miles away from the Moulin Rouge and the Arc de Triomphe. Still, I was a girl on a mission. I would check every website until my fingers cramped and my eyes glazed over.  Expedia and travelocity to hostel world and craigs list. I WOULD get to Paris.

While franticly trying to book France via the web, I was also posting multiple casting calls on the modeling sites Pure Storm and Model Mayhem. Help me get to Paris! My castings shouted. Three hours shoot, £150. I went for volume as well as price…answering others castings for £50-100 for a couple of hours. Luckily my persistence paid off.  I got two three hour shoots from my castings, and a couple of smaller £50-100 pound ones. Not bad for a few hours work.

Model for Hire!

I also started advertising on two prominent fetish sites, which I will not name here out of respect for the users who wish to remain anonymous. I got the idea after working at an exclusive london foot party several months ago, held at a top secret club in East London. Clients would pay the girls £20 for ten minuets of massaging their feet. No touching above the ankle was permitted, although many of the men enjoyed being trampled on in bare feet and heels. My first shift, which started at around 5 and finished at 11, left me walking away with £300, and that was after paying the £50 house fee.

Crushing men underneath my heels...fun AND profitable!

Parties like these seem to constantly move around before vanishing into thin air, but if I would have known that I could get £70 by having a man lick my boots clean for 40 mins as per today, I would have started casting for sessions months ago.

But now the big question. Did I manage to book Paris?

Why yes indeed. A small miracle occurred when 3 days before the 21st when I needed to arrive in france, I received  two texts from The Boyfriend around 4 AM. Call me immediately! They exclaimed. Oh no…what was it this time? Did he leave his charger, wallet, or some other article of priceless importance at my flat? (AKA the DS) No…his student loan had finally came through. Split hotel bill! Not having to make an 8 hr coach journey alone or trawl around after my friends like some kind of foreign third wheel! My prince had arrived, and better yet, I managed to snag us the last two VIP tickets before they sold out a mere two hours later.

Good luck indeed…lets hope it lasts.

With just 1 more day till the journey to Paris the current dilemma is a much easier faced challenge although  still a historic difficulty faced by woman and men around the world…what on earth I going to WEAR?

See you at the ball.

Club AntiChrist March Madness

Posted in Event Review with tags , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2011 by alisonadventures


March Madness at Club AntiChrist

March 4 Cyber Sci Fi at Club Antichrist

Club AntiChrist has long been one of my favorite fet clubs on the scene. More intimate than the increasing masses who are unfortunately polluting TG (That’s Torture Gardens for the uninitiated) more frequently with each ball, yet with a surplus of entertainment that some of the smaller, “play-geared” events such as Subversion and Decadence lack. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love being strapped down and spanked as much as the next kinkster, and being taught how to properly use a whip on a male piggy slave from a gorgeous Russian Dom in rubber turned out to be one of the highlights of the evening. However, I also love a good dance, great music, and twisted shows worth talking about for weeks after the event.

AntiChrist truly caters to all the senses. Club owners are Dominic Void, frontman for the industrial-goth band Avoidance of Doubt, and Missy, an ex-stripper and alternative model and dancer. “Run by and for the scene” is the website’s mantra, and it really does live up to the saying. Wandering into the first room with one of my best kinky-yet-vanilla friends and part-time slave on a leash, the performances are already in full swing. The Whores are rocking and we are buzzing, getting in the mood to party. Next up is the fabulously bizarre AMF Corsets, with a riveting performance involving bondage, granny strippers, cyber masks and latex galore. Other acts dominate the stage throughout the night, including pop-punk singer Kiria and her band of rubber sluts, and Sophia Landi, whose fire eating spectacle captivated audience members and made me envy her skills with the flame. Cooking be damned! I’d rather swallow fire any day.

Of course, being the obvious camera whore I am, it wasn’t long before me and my and partners made a bee line straight for the Photo Booth. Some of my best fet club moments of months passed have been detailed in the fabulously wacky sets and props set out by the Photo Booth! Out of Order team, and tonight was no exception. We posed and pranced with our new lovely friends that we’d collected at the bar (wonderful people who recognized me as “the insanely hot vampire on the Peaches Geldof Show”…but that’s another story for another day). The set this time was a black-and-white checkerboard, a rocking horse, and a broken TV set, and the resulting image consisted of a PVC French maid, a sci-fi queen, a topless sci-fi slut, and one Avatar straight off the silver screen. Perfect.

The drinks were cheap, the music was rocking, and there were enough jagerbombs and tequila shots going around to keep everyone hyped. One of the best things about the fet scene is running into familiar faces from past events, and I love catching up and chatting to my “scene friends”. Especially when they’re buying the shots! Some bad news that night, however, when I learned the gorgeous Singaporean lady in red latex with whom I had a brief but notable fling at a past Festival of Sins (on my first date with The Boyfriend, no less!) had sadly returned overseas. Ah, well. Better to have lusted and lost…

Next up was the dungeon, where me and my not-so-vanilla mate practiced the art of the paddle. Tactfully turning down couples room invites (why oh why must long-distance relationships have to result in, well, so much distance?) we headed to the chill out room when plagued with those inevitable 3 am munchies. Luckily, AC provides free sweeties all night long, as well as selling yummy fried delicacies such as egg rolls and curry to soak up some of that ever-flowing alcohol. Which was, of course, fully taken advantage of before venturing out into the cold in search of that elusive night bus home.

Fire? Music? Whips? FREE CANDY? Yup, AntiChrist is my kinda club.

Next event is the very first Miss Alternative UK, a competition of alternative performers. I just wish I’d found out sooner and could have gotten that vampire burlesque routine into gear…

For more information or to purchase tickets to events, go to the website:

http://www.clubantichrist.com

or via email: info@clubantichrist.com

Beware the False Prophets (Of a Lost Generation)

Posted in Love, Men, prophecies, Prose, Relationships, religion, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2011 by alisonadventures

 

 

 

 

You are lost, scared, confused. It is late. Your friends have abandoned you at the  latest  party, leaving you alone for darkened kiss on a dance floor. The music pounds inside your head, brains screaming for a moments peace as you grab your head to try and soothe away the agony, but it is of no use, your hands are hot, sweaty like the rest of you, feverish frenzy of dancing, hormones and alcohol, manic activity as you dance alone to the beat of a tribal pop tune.

It is then, it is always then when He finds you.

Is he the spiky blonde with the clear aqua eyes, tattoos of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics etched into his arms and chest, white kimono top and piercings?

Is he the tall black gentleman caller, leather trench coat and tinted glasses, muscled chest and slow smile that reveals sharp pointed fangs?

Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?

He takes many forms but in one thing He is constant. He always comes when you are most alone, most afraid, most angry and most self-destructive. He always offers you a drink, a drug, an escape, a promise.

A meaning to the universe, and a reason that you are here, that you met Him, tonight. There is always a reason. You were meant to fight with your boyfriend, you were destined to go to that club where he just so happened to be there. You knew you were meant to find something, someone, that night. Him.

He enchants you with talk of magic, of chaos theory, of chakras and world travel, of tai chi in Beijing, of healing, of energy and how everything is one. In his world, you are beautiful, you are fully connected to the earth and air and sky and him, forming a perfect circle, never alone.

He seduces you with passionate rhetoric on vampirism, how he is a dark and dirty creature of the night. He whirls you around on the dance floor, he invites you to Paris, to fabulous balls, to his flat after the party.

He flatters you with compliments, showers you with gifts and praise. You are stunning, gorgeous, thin, lovely, better than Her, always better. You are talented and perfect and interesting and what I wouldn’t give to be with a girl like You. You deserve champagne, cocaine, ecstasy and designer clothes, Chanel and Dior and dinner at Nobu, cocktails at The Mandarin.

And yes, you are taken in. You want the religion, the magic, the feel that maybe he really is healing you with his energy, your aura is glowing, purple and red and green. The sushi and sake and fish oil pills, the valerian root to help you sleep, the paintings and travel that he offers you, the way that he seems to worship you when he looks into your eyes.

Or else you want the travel, the seduction, the sex. The feel whirl of  the dance, the feel of his fangs biting into your neck, your lips. The sensation and the pleasure, the decadence of knowing you are forsaken but uncaring, eager only to embark in the next event, the next feeling, the next embrace. You don’t want to be healed by the light, but luxuriate in darkness. Lust.

Maybe you crave the leather, the silk, the feel of expensive clothes draped on your body, the perfume and diamonds making you feel like you are worth something, for that day, for that minute. Worthless girls don’t walk around in clothes worth more than most monthly rents, worthless girls don’t sip candy-coloured drinks and nibble delicately at appetizers, the white powder suppressing your appetitive, helping you to fit into your size 0 jeans. Opulence.

It is so easy to slip away, losing yourself completely in their world. They have chosen You because you are different, unlike most girls, beautiful and valuable in your own right.

You are the ultimate actress, changing yourself completely as they mentor you, in universal consciousness or metaphysics, physic vampirism or how to improve you, make you a star.

They are always intelligent, well spoken. Stacks of books and films and theories and debates. They do not simply want money or sex, not always. They want to seduce your mind, your soul. They see you, attractive but sad, a lost girl or boy with no family, dressed up but alone. They are only to happy to provide the escape that you seek.

And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.

But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.

It is better to submit than be violated.

And  then comes the day when you walk away.

Night. 6AM at the strangers flat. Morning, now. You are with your partner but he is weak, wasted on the wine and champagne. You are half-asleep, lying on his bed, also drunk. The vampire is smart. He has not been drinking. He strips naked and flexes his chest, coming onto your lover first.  He kisses his lips, runs his nails down his body as  your boyfriend looks at you,  and you silently mouth “no”. He tries to protest but submits, in the end, and see him and think of you, how you have been used and drawn into the fantasies of so many other false prophets.

Not again. Never again.

But the vampire is clever, as they always are. He licks you, caresses you, draws you into pleasure but for once your mind is stronger than your body and you leap off the bed. He grabs your arm, restraining you and you are scared, and think, for the briefest moment, of submitting once again. But something in you snaps and you wrench your arm free, throw open the door and sprint down the stairs.

New Year. New Start.

You are outside, shivering and furious, angry and cold. You are naked underneath your coat, feathered shoes clutched in your hands. You are still drunk and lost, but proud, so proud that for once you had the strength to resist, the courage to walk away.

And then you hear the footsteps behind you.

It is your lover. He has left the vampire and his pleasures and ran instead to follow you, tears and makeup streaked down his face, eyes silently begging for forgiveness for not protecting you, not sheltering you.

But he is here and he has come back for you, and together you find a  lighted pathway leading home.

The entire night he holds you close, whispering his love, how he cares more for you than himself, that he would do anything for you. And you clutch him tightly, seeking solace and warmth in his arms. Falling asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the sure and steady beating of his heart.

And for all their glitz and glamour, all the prophecies and promises in the world could not live up to the strength of your love.

I don’t hate you.

Posted in Love, Men, Prose, Relationships on November 9, 2010 by alisonadventures



About two men

It was the passion that drew me.

The smouldering look in your dark brown eyes. How your hands would brush oh so gently over my body, breasts tingling, icy waves of pleasure at your barest touch.

The tormenting tease as I was tied to a pole, subjected to the stares and judgements of strangers, whipped harshly by black leather, cooled by the black silken glove.

I was your slave, your object, your plaything. I drawn into your power. You owned me in mind, in body, in spirit. I was an extension of you.

Master.

The sweetest surrender was to give myself to you totally. You calmed my jittery nerves, made me know everything was going to be ok. With you my stress melted away leaving me calm, whole. When you whipped me it built inside of me like waves, spilling out in cries and moans like an orgasm but higher, pain at its peak, the purest form of pleasure.

Our affair was brief, but the closest I have ever experienced. I had given myself so totally to you. When you left me I was devastated, myself once more, empty without your love, your assurances, your control.

Broken.

Thin girl scared girl panicky girl bones girl dead girl

Like a rough cloth doll I repaired myself, stitch by stitch, patching myself up where you had torn me, stuffing back the raw woollen cotton leaking out.  The smile a bit too thick, thread a bit too red but I made it. I survived.

Pick yourself up, wipe off the dust, put on the corsets and top hats and makeup, go for cocktails with the dashing young gentleman and maybe you don’t instantly fall for him and maybe your too much yourself with him, never letting the stony walls down. Maybe he never sees the real you, small and pink and raw.  And maybe he isn’t your other half, the missing part where you soul bonds with another’s like they have never parted. Maybe.

But he is real and he good and he is devoted. His smile sheds warmth and he makes you laugh. Maybe this is good, this is real this is healthy. Maybe.

It was the intensity that drew me.

Your slate blue eyes compelled me, sucked me into your world. We were surrounded by others but with you I was alone, together in our own separate galaxy. Just the look in your eyes when you glanced at me made the warmth rise to my cheeks, made me intensely aware of my appearance, my speech, my bearings. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, I was never at ease around you.

You spoke of travel, of business, of pleasure. Completely self employed, the world was your oyster. I envied your lifestyle, craved it for myself.
You were a magician, hypnotizing minds and perceptions, shifting others thoughts to fuel your own desires. I wanted to assist you, tour with you, be with you and apart from you. I wanted you I wanted to be you.

With you it was the passion, the energy, the lust. It was the ambition and the hours of conversation, the build up before the fire, words fanning the flame. It was the shared interests, the music, the sweat, jagerbombs fuelling our adrenaline rush. I did not submit to you but matched you, word for word, thurst for thrust. Supernova.

We were the stars of the future, rising faster and faster. Destined to crash and burn.

You used me.

Promised me the world, then walked away.

You enchained me, swept me away with promises, and I surrendered to the sweet release of your power.

You spoke of great cities, tours, performances. Lost ideas, drawings, plans that faded gently with the morning light.

I gave myself to you and you ended it without a backwards glance. It was just me, me with my text books falling to the floor of the brick campus courtyard, phone clutched desperately to my face as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

Broken. Shattered. All by myself. Myself. Myself.

I left everything for you. Relationships, friends, duty, self-respect. Everything to feel your touch as your possessed me. Everything for the solid warmth of your arms around me, falling asleep safe holding you.
Did our conversations mean nothing to you? Hours spent in each others company, the plans, the hopes, the dreams, was it all just a game to you? Were you scared? Did you become frightened by our intensity, how quickly we became one?  How I must have  looked I gazed entranced into your eyes, the expression on your face after your image had shed, the rockstar poser gone, all witticism and pretensions vanished and it was just you, stripped bare, lying naked next to me.
Maybe it was too much for you to handle, maybe you couldn’t quite surrender the way I did, desperate for the fire, the meaning, the one to rock my world and make me forget the banality of my own existence, my own suffering, my own pain.
Was it I who was the fire, and you the worshipper who left before you could get burned?
Betrayer. Asshole. Wanker. Fucker. Twat.

These are the words my girlfriends use for you,  these are the things I thought when you left me, hurt and bleeding and empty. These are the things I still feel, at first, when some unseen image of your enters unwelcome into my mind, when I find your Tshirt or mirror in my apartment and the hurt, held in check by loosly woven threads, gushes out of the floodgates of my mind.
The pain comes in spasms as strong as the pleasure did before it, the tears racking me like waves as I yearn to despise you, damn you and denounce you.
But I cannot.
How can I hate you without poisoning the things we did together? Our embraces, the events we went to together, enhanced by the feeling of you enjoying it with me, the wild parties and music and alcohol transformed into something higher, something purer because I was experiencing it all with you.
I was giddy with the intoxication of your hand in mind. I was drunk on your praise, on the promises, on the fantasy of being with you.
The beauty of the collar that never was, the trip that never happened, the performance that shall remain in sketches and smoke, ideas and ideals crumbling slowly over time, gathering dust, forgotten by you perhaps but not by me.
Are the bittersweet memories of all that never was made even more beautiful by the fact that they shall  remain ever unfulfilled?


Am I a fool, a romantic idiot clinging to the times we shared, times you so casually brushed aside?

Maybe.

But to me they were real. They were exiting and thrilling and heartbreaking and dangerous but dammit they happened.

I will not forget.

And I cannot hate you.